Was I losing my mind?
It was nowhere in sight.
My apartment was quite small, which limited my options for where to keep things. While some omegas would shift their nest items around, dragging them to the couch or other cozy spots, that wasn't really my style. I firmly believed that nest items belonged in the nest. Even though mine was modest, it was easy to notice when something was missing—like the pillow that should have been there. I shuffled a few othersaround, hoping in vain that it might be tucked away beneath one of them, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t there.
A nest large enough to lose items in was just a dream. Maybe one day, I’d have my own big girl nest. Until then, I was a student living in a tiny apartment and an equally small nest that apparently came with vanishing pillows.
Pouting to myself, I picked up the blanket with strawberries on it and wrapped it around myself. Maybe once I had a bit more money, I would be able to get myself some more nesting supplies. I made a little from tutoring, and my scholarship included a small stipend for living costs. As it was, my nest was pretty meager, and I was feeling the loss of the round pink pillow. I had been extra forgetful of late—first, the notebook, and now, the pillow. The lack of sleep and constant studying were clearly starting to drain me.
With my book in hand, I flicked to the first page and began reading. Reading was one of my favorite pastimes because it was the opposite of numbers. While I loved statistics and math, I needed to turn my brain off, and a sweet book was just the way to do that.
My phone started buzzing incessantly before I was a chapter in.
Sighing, I put my book down and grabbed my phone from the small table beside my nest. In the past, I’d slept with it under my pillow, but I had lost it among the blankets a few too many times.
Mom.
Trying not to pout, I weighed up my options. I had been putting off talking to my mother for the last two weeks, claiming I was busy studying. That excuse would only last so long.
After accepting the call, I pressed the speaker button and leaned back on my pillows. “Hey, Mom,” I greeted.
“Flora! Baby, I’m so glad I finally got hold of you. I swear you're always too busy for me now you're out in California.”
I ignored her subtle dig. “College is a lot of work, but it’ll be worth it.”
“You know you could have gotten a bookkeeping job here without a fancy degree—but never mind! Let’s not go down that rabbit hole again. I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing. It’s been so long since we’ve heard from you.”
“Honestly, I'm exactly the same as the last time we spoke.”
I knew for a fact that my mother was secretly pleased that I didn’t have a social life. In her mind, that meant I was all the more likely to come back home after college.
“Still no heat symptoms?” she asked.
“Nope,” I lied through my teeth.
“That’s so strange, you should have had your first heat by now. Maybe when you come home, we’ll talk to Doctor Harold.”
Doctor Harold was our family doctor. An old, graying man who acted as if he came straight from the twenties.
“I’m just a late bloomer. No big deal,” I said nonchalantly, picking up my phone, crawling out of my nest, and padding toward the bathroom.
“I know, but I just want to make sure everything is working, you know?” my mom said in that condescending, parental voice.
“I’m fine, Mom. If I have any symptoms, you’ll be the first to know,” I said. “Actually, I’m exhausted…”
“Oh, look at the time! I have my book club tonight as well. Will you be coming home for the holidays?”
“I’m not sure, honestly.”
My mother tutted. “You really should prioritize family, Flora. Speaking of, I forwarded a few dating profiles for you.”
Exhaling, I closed my eyes and steeled myself for the next sentence. My mother had taken to sending me notes from prospective alphas who were looking for an omega. They were usually silly letters full of flattery because my mother had shown them a photo, so they were complimenting me to try to make me pay attention to them.
I wasn’t against compliments and flattery, but when it came from a photo my mother had shared with them, it fell somewhat flat. Each sentence felt heavy, laden with expectation and pressure. It was hard not to feel objectified, reduced to a mere photo and a string of flattering words. And then, there was my mother’s relentless enthusiasm behind it all, as if these letters were my greatest achievement.
The letters were stuffed into one of the drawers, where I hardly paid attention to them.
“Thank you, I’ll take a look,” I lied, “but you’d better hurry, or you’ll miss book club.”
